


Marrow Meat Bone

by Helholden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ADWD spoilers, AFFC spoilers, ASOS Spoilers, Brother-Sister Relationships, Gen, POV Female Character, Sibling Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-30
Updated: 2013-01-30
Packaged: 2017-11-27 12:41:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/662116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Helholden/pseuds/Helholden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While under the apprenticeship of the Many-Faced God, Arya has Warg dreams that take her north to the Wall — to her brother, Jon. Follows the second half of ‘A Dance with Dragons.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Marrow Meat Bone

**Author's Note:**

> Written as a prompt for Willow about Arya and her wolf-dreams and/or her ability to Warg. Started out small, and then it escalated a lot longer than I anticipated. I hope you enjoy it, Willow! It was a ton of fun to write. :)

 

* * *

 

The dreams came to her at night. Every night when the girl closed her eyes to sleep, she dreamt she was the wolf prowling the dense crisp leaves of the forest floor with her pack, hunting for bone and marrow and meat. Tonight, though, she realized she was dreaming, and the wolf took notice. She suddenly paused in mid-stride, ears pricked to the sky, and she looked at the forest surrounding her. The girl tried to recognize the place, but it was no place recognizable, and so she decided she would run until she found some place that was.

 

The girl ran and ran and ran, faster than any human had any right to be. But she wasn’t a human, was she? She ran on four legs instead of two, but it was better than just two. She could get there faster than any horse or dog or sparrow. Eventually, when it seemed as though hours had passed, she came to a sloping valley of snow and tripped on her own feet from utter exhaustion, tumbling down the descent with nary a thought in her head.

 

The girl woke up after that and resumed her normal daily routine, but she remembered the dream, and the next night, she sought it out again.

 

In her dream but not dream, she woke up in the darkness, hurting all over, the stench of an expired carcass nearby. Upon sniffing around, she found it was only a hart, and she left the shelter of the small den to explore. Sniffing the air, she followed the smell of smoke and came close to an enormous camp, only it wasn’t really a camp but a small village. The people looked underfed and dirtier than rats, but the girl avoided them and kept out of sight.

 

She took to the road and continued running like a maddened hound, her tongue lolling out of her mouth. It seemed as the world started to darken into evening, she found herself coming upon the tallest structure she had ever seen in her life. The wall of ice reached higher than the Red Keep, higher than the tallest mountain peak. She knew, if only it had been built sideways, it would have blotted out the sun.

 

Her legs ran faster and faster, until she skidded to a halt as arrows came down at her, and she cried as she ducked out of the way of fire.

 

“Shoot it!” one man cried.

 

“It’s as big as a damn horse!” another shouted.

 

“It’s not as big as a horse, you whoreson,” a third voice chimed in. “It’s a damn direwolf like Lord Commander Snow’s beast!”

 

“It’s _me_ , Arya Stark!” the girl shouted at them, remembering her name. “Arya Stark of Winterfell, you stupid lumps of dung!” But they didn’t understand her, and another two arrows whizzed past her coat and nearly pierced her dead. Arya leapt out of the way with another yowl, but then she heard a voice so familiar she whipped her head in its direction.

 

“What is all this commotion?” Jon demanded, and without thinking, Arya bounded toward him. Cries rose up in terror, but Ghost did not attack her. His tail wagged happily as she leapt onto Jon and threw her arms around him as best as she could manage to do. She meant to kiss him, but somehow she was licking his face instead, and she thought this passing odd, but otherwise did not care. She buried her face in Jon’s jerkin and furs, wagging her tail all the while.

 

Jon was laughing, stroking her fur and patting her on the head. “Well, who are you?” he asked, taking her by the face to look at her. Arya felt her heart drop. He did not recognize her. She was wearing the face of the pretty girl last. Of course he would not recognize her.

 

Arya opened her mouth to speak, and realized with a fright that a bark came out.

 

Jon’s eyes widened. “Nymeria,” he said, and Arya laughed hysterically, and continued licking his face again. It was a very strange dream, but a good dream all the same. She missed Jon more than anyone else in the entire world, and she would have given up anything if only to see him again and have him ruffle her hair like he used to do.

 

“It’s all right,” Jon said to the men. “I know this wolf. Come, Nymeria. Let’s get you something proper to eat. You look half-starved.” Ghost was nuzzling and nipping at Arya when Jon called, “Ghost, to me.” Together, Arya and Ghost trotted along behind Jon and joined him at his sides.

 

The men gave her, Jon, and Ghost fearful looks, and Arya couldn’t help but smile. She never got to smile anymore, but it was easy to smile around Jon. Remembering how happy she was to see him, she began wagging her tail again.

 

Jon led Ghost and her past many men and towers and doors until he came to one at last that he stopped at, briefly went inside, and came back out with fresh meat in his hands. He tossed a slice to each of them, big chunks of red savory meat, and Arya gobbled it up like she had never tasted anything so _wonderful_.

 

“What are you doing here, Nymeria?” Jon asked her, stooping down to her eye level. She continued eating at first, and then tried to tell him who she really was, but he didn’t seem to understand a word she said. His face only creased in confusion. “I wish I spoke in barks and howls,” he said somewhat sadly. “Then I might understand you.”

 

Arya, utterly frustrated, looked down at the snow and hit it. It made a deep line, and she cocked her head at it in interest, then her eyes lit up. Arya began to hit the ground with many awkward strokes, and it took the better part of an hour perhaps, or longer, but after two dozen failed scratch mark piles in the white tuft, she managed to make lines that matched a word. A single, simple word he could not miss.

 

Jon’s eyes grew as big as saucers, and he fell onto his bottom in the snow, his hand catching half the weight of his fall.

 

“Arya,” he whispered, reading the name in the snow.

 

Arya beamed and jumped then, but the joy did not last for long because Izembaro woke her up, and she was back in Braavos. She was distracted today, and Izembaro was not happy, so he sent her to bed without feeding her anything, and Arya, forgetting she had no name now, went to bed hungry and could not focus in her dream like before. When she woke up, it was all a blur to her. Arya remembered the snow, men’s black figures, and another white wolf by her side, trotting through the snow, but that was all.

 

She killed a man, and got to eat tonight, and went to bed focused again.

 

Opening her eyes and blinking once, she did not recognize the room she was in and, rolling over, did not recognize the bed. Arya rolled again, finding it a particularly satisfying means of transportation, until she rolled clean off the bed with a yelp.

 

“What’s the mat—” Jon stopped halfway through the word, sitting up in bed disheveled and sleepy, and stared at Arya. Ghost, sleeping at the foot of the bed, peaked his head up too to inspect the scene.

 

Arya felt like a fool and knew she was bushing crimson, her tail stuck between her legs and her ears laid flat. Jon, rushing suddenly to get out of bed in his long johns, scrambled around the bedposts to reach her and knelt on the floor in front of her hunched figure.

 

“Arya?” he asked, reaching out to touch her face, but at the last minute he pulled his hand back. “Arya, is that you?”

 

She wanted to say, “Of course, it’s me, you idiot,” but so far he hadn’t understood a word she had said before, and he wasn’t going to start now. Arya pawed his shoulder instead and lifted her head once before lowering it as if to nod. Jon seemed to laugh, or maybe partly cry, she couldn’t be sure, and threw his arms around her so tight she thought he might suffocate her.

 

“You’re alive,” he said happily, “or I’m mad. But what’s the difference? Both are a wonderful reprieve from the thought of you dead or worse.” He let go of her and rubbed her shaggy coat, grinning despite the smallest glimmer of water in his eyes. “I don’t understand, though. You must be a Warg, like me, but how? I could never control it, not even in the dreams.”

 

Arya grumbled beneath her breath, and Jon laughed even harder this time. “Yes, of course, speech is an impediment. We must find a way to communicate.” Oh, good, for once he at least understood her merely by tone. They eventually settled upon Jon asking yes and no questions, but even those seemed to prove troubling for correspondence. For every question he asked her, more were raised as she would shake her head more often than she would nod. Jon fell back onto one of his palms, exasperated, and ran the other hand through his shaggy dark hair.

 

“I wish I knew what questions to ask,” he said, and then his eyes lit up, and he held out his hands at her. “Are you in the North?”

 

Arya shook her head.

 

Jon looked astonished as if she had just tried to bite his hand off, and shook his own head in disbelief. “But I thought Ramsey Snow had you? News was he took you for his bride, a gift from the Lannisters.” He nearly spat the last word out.

 

Arya, finding _this_ news to her, wrinkled her nose in disgust, but it became a growl on Nymeria’s face. She trilled in annoyance, and shook her head ferociously.

 

Jon sighed deeply in relief, and then set his lips in firm line. “I should ask more open questions, shouldn’t I?”

 

Arya, finally in agreement with him, nodded quickly.

 

“All right,” he said. “Are you in Westeros?”

 

Arya smiled, which amounted to a lolling tongue, and shook her head.

 

Jon’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Are you . . . in Essos?”

 

At last, Arya nodded happily in response. Jon looked like he would crawl out of his skin at any moment. It must have been hard for him to imagine, her crossing the Narrow Sea all alone and surviving in a country far away from everything she had ever known. It wasn’t as hard as some people made it out to be, Arya thought. She did it, and she had only been a child at the time.

 

“But how?” Jon asked, clearly disconcerted by this revelation. “I don’t — wait, I’m sorry, you can’t answer that.” Arya gave him a pointed look that said that much was true. If he expected words to start coming out of her any time soon, he was in for a nasty disappointment.

 

“Are you in one of the Free Cities?”

 

Arya nodded again, glad to be making progress. Jon shared her eagerness, as did Ghost, who finally came down from the bed to sit beside Jon with his ears perked upright.

 

“Pentos?”

 

Arya shook her head.

 

“Myr?”

 

Another shake.

 

“Lys?”

 

And another.

 

“Braavos?”

 

This time Arya jumped with excitement and vigorously nodded her head up and down, barking at Jon as if to say, “Yes, _yes_!”

 

“By the gods,” Jon exclaimed under his breath. “You’re in Braavos?”

 

She couldn’t explain to him how or why she was there, but they didn’t have the time for that in any case. The night had gotten away from them, and it was time for Jon to rise and take up his duties for the day, and soon, Arya knew, she would have to wake up. Nymeria must have been well-behaved around Jon for him to let her stay in his quarters, so Arya didn’t worry about losing him with Nymeria running off.

 

When her eyes opened, she was back in Braavos and the sun was bright in her eyes. It was an abrupt change from the black sky outside of Jon’s tower, and it took some time getting used to the time difference. The girl tried to forget her name as she dressed herself that morning, and she went about her day almost mechanically. Izembaro noticed the change in her, and he punished her again.

 

“If you want to be faceless, you cannot have a name,” he said simply. “Who are you?” he asked her, just like the Kindly Man.

 

“No one,” Arya replied, and he slapped her.

 

Her dream world called to her throughout each hour of the passing days, and the deepest part of her wanted to go back home or at least to the Wall to see her brother again in person like it was meant to be. She sometimes spent nights with Jon through Nymeria, but more often than not she just slept and dreamt of nothing. She wondered why she couldn’t always tap into Nymeria. Maybe that was what Jon meant when he said he couldn’t control it even in his dreams.

 

When Arya was awake, she would sometimes take to entering the minds of the cats in Braavos. It was easy to make a friend that way, and even easier to steal from them with her sharp teeth and run away with a coin in her mouth. She collected them and hid them somewhere safe. What she was saving up for, she couldn’t be sure, but it seemed something inside of her told her she would need it.

 

As dusk fell upon Braavos, Arya knew the time was earlier at the Wall. She went to sleep early this time, and woke in Nymeria’s skin with prickles all over her and her hair standing on end as a loud scream tore through the air.

 

The first thing she did was run. She ran and ran and ran through the snow, following the screams and the commotion, the yelling and god-awful sounds. What she came upon was the grisly sight of a giant, whirling a dead corpse about like a beating toy and smacking it against the wall of Hardin’s Tower over and over as blood sprayed everywhere.

 

Arya, not knowing what to do, but knowing she couldn’t take on a giant, looked for her brother in the crowd. She saw him eventually, hollering at the men, trying to get them to listen to him and follow his orders. No one was listening, though. No one cared.

 

And then, like out of some bad dream, Arya saw the glint of knives drawn.

 

Arya bolted towards them as one of the men tried to cut Jon’s throat. Jon dodged it and tried to pull for his sword, but another man stood before him and _in_ went the blade, right into Jon’s belly. Another knife went into his back, and another . . .

 

Launching through the air, Arya clamped teeth down on the throat of one of them and tore him wide open, the warm blood gushing into her mouth. It put her into a frenzy. She attacked another one, mauled his wrist, and another, going yet again for the throat. She felt an arrow strike her, and she yelped in pain, but the rage was in her and it could not be stopped. Arya spun toward the man with the bow. Before he could notch another arrow, she tore open his stomach and his entrails splattered onto the fresh white snow.

 

Though wounded, Arya trotted to Jon’s body to protect it and barred her teeth at anyone who got too close. She did not even know if he was still alive, but he was her brother and she would protect him if only it meant no one else would touch his corpse without her consent. Then, so abruptly, she woke from the dream.

 

She was back in Braavos, sitting up in her bed.

 

Arya couldn’t remember the last time she cried, but she cried so hard then that her head began to hurt, her chest ached, and her eyes burned from all the salty tears. She didn’t know if Jon was dead, and she didn’t know if suddenly waking up meant that Nymeria was dead too. In her despair she believed her brother was gone, and Arya began to cry fresh tears anew.

 

It hardened her heart at first to continue her apprenticeship under Izembaro to learn all she could of killing, so she could return one day and slaughter them all. At night, Arya tried and tried for weeks to enter the mind of Nymeria, and it was like opening her eyes to nothing but blackness with no sound, no smell, nothing. It was much different from being blind. It was like being dead, and despite all her best efforts to remain, Arya knew what she had to do.

 

She did not leave a note for Izembaro, but she penned one for the Kindly Man and gave it to the waif inside the House of Black and White with instructions for her to give it straight to the Kindly Man. With her stolen coins in her pocket, she counted the steps before the House of Black and White and retrieved Needle from its hiding place and ran immediately for the docks.

 

She listened for an hour to find a ship with the right passage. Approaching the captain, she bowed her head at him and said, “ _Valar morghulis_.”

 

The man, who had only just been leering at her, looked suddenly frightened of her and dipped his head down in response. “ _Valar dohaeris_ ,” he answered as modestly as possible.

 

“Eastwatch-by-the-Sea,” she said, handing him a gold dragon.

 

Eyes widening, the scraggly man took the coin and bit into it with what few teeth he had left, and smiling an ugly grin because of his missing teeth, he held out his arm to welcome her onto the ship.

 

“Eastwatch, it is,” he said. “Welcome ‘board, lass.”

 

The passage through the north seas was a tumult of storms, rain, and crashing waves. Arya almost fell overboard twice in two storms, and took to remaining below deck until they reached their destination. It was not that she was scared, but she must get to Jon. She had to make sure he was still alive, and she couldn’t very well do that if she was drowning at the bottom of a sea somewhere as food for the fishes.

 

When they reached land, Arya was glad to see them go. She was halted by the men of Eastwatch, who asked her what a girl’s business was this close to the Wall. Arya retorted that she wasn’t a girl, which was obviously a lie, and explained that she came bearing an important message she had to take to the Lord Commander at Castle Black, which was another bold-faced lie. She then pulled a wax-sealed letter from her pockets to show them, which was a fake, and asked for a horse to take her to Castle Black. The men debated on this for some time, but relented and provided her with a horse and a small ration to eat.

 

She rode fast and with few breaks. By the time she reached Castle Black, the horse was dying from exhaustion. Arya spoke to the first man she saw, explaining her purpose, and he showed her the way to go but did not accompany her. Which was all right for her, because Arya recognized Castle Black from her dreams, and she veered off the path he showed her and followed the one her wolf-feet knew too well.

 

Jon’s tower, when she opened it, was empty. Arya felt her heart sink into her stomach as dread began to fill her every pore. He was dead, then, wasn’t he? He was dead, and he was never coming back.

 

“Who are you, child?”

 

Arya quickly wiped her tears on her sleeve and spun around at the unexpected voice, staring at the familiar stranger until recognition dawned on her. It was the red woman, the red priestess of her wolf-dreams, who served the Red God. _Rh’llor_ , Arya remembered. Thoros of Myr, who had raised Beric Dondarrion back to life from the Hound’s death-blow, also served the Red God.

 

Somehow, Arya knew she must tell the red woman the truth.

 

“Arya Stark,” she said proudly, “of Winterfell. I am here to see my brother. Please, where is he?”

 

The red woman’s eyes flashed with a look Arya could not place, and her eyes roved over Arya as if she was measuring her for something. “Did you come here on a dying horse?” the lady asked, calmly, like she was asking for a cup of tea.

 

“Yes,” Arya said, puzzled. “How did you—”

 

“You are wearing grey,” the lady said, cutting her off. There was something in her voice. If Arya could have guessed it, she would have said the woman was happy, though it did not show on her face. “Come, I will take you to your brother.”

 

Arya followed the red woman to another tower, which was heavily guarded, and climbed a flight of steps to the top, which was also guarded. Arya’s heart thumped loudly in her chest. The door opened with a gush of warmth pouring out, and Arya saw the room was made of dark wooden walls, but a huge fire blazed in the hearth that chased the shadows away.

 

There, on the bed in the center, laid the body of Jon Snow. He was guarded by two great direwolves— _Ghost and Nymeria_ , thought Arya, but she could not bring herself to care. Jon’s chest was not moving, and he was as white as the namesake of his direwolf.

 

A strangled cry rose in her throat, and Arya rushed to him. She shook Jon, pushed at him, and even hit him a few times in the chest. “Wake up!” Arya cried. “Wake up, damn you! Wake up, Jon!” When he would not move or open his eyes, Arya felt the hot tears splash down her face and clutched the bedding with a vice grip lest she start hitting things. Nymeria, limping over to Arya with a bandage around one of her legs, nuzzled her.

 

“He carried on for weeks,” the red woman quietly said from behind her. “I did what I could for him, but he succumbed to his wounds not a few hours ago. I am sorry, Arya Stark, but he is dead.”

 

Arya whirled on her, rage alight in her grey eyes. “No, he is not dead!” she snarled, with a force that surprised even herself. “He is not _dead_ , because you are a priestess of the Red God, and I’ve seen what a priest of the Red God can do! Thoros of Myr was a red priest, and he rode with Beric Dondarrion, and he brought Dondarrion back from the dead after the Hound had killed him, so don’t tell me he’s dead when you can _save_ him!”

 

The red woman looked somber at the chiding, and then a grave expression overtook her face as she stared down at Arya. “Yes,” the lady whispered, as if speaking it too loud would shatter all of the windows around them into a million glittering shards of ice. “I have that power, but what you ask carries a heavy burden and an even heavier price to pay.” With her red skirts _swooshing_ around her, the red woman circled the bed and came to the other side. She leaned across it to look straight at Arya over Jon’s dead body. “Is this what you want?” she asked, and her eyes looked down at Jon. “Or is it what Jon would want?”

 

Arya did not know what to say. She was sure, whatever the burden, that it was worth it if it meant Jon was alive again. She knew his body would bear the knife marks for the rest of his life, but aside from physical injury and a failing memory, Dondarrion had no other ills. Dondarrion had also been brought back to life numerous times, if she remembered correctly, whereas Jon would only need it this once.

 

“Yes,” Arya said, tears filling her eyes again. “I know my brother, and he would want this.”

 

The red woman studied her for a long moment. Her face gave away nothing. Then, straightening her back, she bowed her head at Arya.

 

“Then I, Melisandre of the Flames, servant of Rh’llor, will grant it.”

 

As darkness descended upon Castle Black, the night fires burned higher than ever before, great wisps of flame licking the black sky like a hungry serpent. Arya watched it all from Melisandre’s side, though she understood none of it, and the prayers went unheard for the drumbeat in her ears. Melisandre held out her hand to Arya’s face and gently caught her falling tears. She placed these tears on Jon, and the smoke from the fires choked out Arya’s breath.

 

Arya wondered finally what magic she had awoken, what deep dark abyss she had opened, for all of the air seemed to be sucked out of the sky and deathly silence where no sound could be heard followed it. It seemed the whole world was swallowed in darkness, and then—then came the light.

 

Jon sucked in a sudden breath, like he had just been pulled up from drowning underwater, and coughed and choked until he was red in the face. Arya jumped on the bed, throwing her arms around him. She was laughing and crying all at once, and Jon, though confused at first, seemed to realize it was his sister and clung back. Ghost and Nymeria soon surrounded them, licking happily at their faces and wagging their tails.

 

“I thought you were dead,” Arya said, crying miserably into his shoulder. “I never thought I would see you again—”

 

Jon took her gently by the arms and pushed her back far enough to look her in the eyes. He seemed so confused, even now, and appeared healthy but sickly too. Arya did not know how it was possible. His skin was as pale as ash once more, but his eyes were bright and alive.

 

“How are you here?” Jon asked, and though he looked dazed, he spoke with crystal clarity.

 

“I came to you,” Arya said. “I came to save you.”

 

Jon looked from Arya to Lady Melisandre. The red woman raised her chin, and the ruby at her throat pulsed brighter than any diamond in the sun. “The sister,” she said, “a girl in grey on a dying horse. She has come to you, like I said she would.” Her eyes, Arya realized, were blazing red. “As well as the daggers in the dark,” she added. “Will you listen to me now, Lord Snow?”

 

Jon’s face grew dark, and for a moment angry, and then Arya could no longer read his expression. His breath rattled in his chest, and he turned to Arya and tried to smile at her. “You always wanted to be the hero, Arya,” he said. “Now look at what you’ve done.” His tone wasn’t angry, though. Jon ruffled her hair in an affectionate gesture like he did when she was younger, and Arya grinned at him and punched his arm.

 

Lady Melisandre had gotten out a scabbard and sword, holding it out hilt first to Jon. She beckoned him with a nod to take it. Jon ruffled Ghost’s fur and carefully left the bed on unsteady feet, and Arya went to his side to help him, putting his left arm around her shoulders to give him support.

 

Jon’s hand grasped the hilt, and he drew the sword.

 

A brilliant light shone forth from the blade, blinding Arya temporarily. When she opened her eyes to look again, she drew in a sharp breath at the beautiful sword. Her hand reached out to it, but before she could even touch it, it _burned_ her, like it radiated real heat. Jon didn’t seem to even feel it, though.

 

“It is Lightbringer,” Lady Melisandre announced, though her eyes were locked on Arya’s brother, Jon. “The Sword of Azor Ahai.”

 

“But I don’t understand,” Jon said. “King Stannis has Lightbringer . . . ”

 

“It was a trick,” Lady Melisandre admitted, and she did it without sounding guilty. “In my desperation I gave his sword the appearance of Lightbringer, but it is false.”

 

“But this is my sword, Longclaw—”

 

“Lightbringer cannot be forged,” she explained. “It is born when Azor Ahai is reborn. You have been reborn from death, Jon Snow. The prophecy is fulfilling itself. You are Azor Ahai.”

 

Arya stared at the sword with wonder and little reflections of light dancing in her eyes. She had seen real magic tonight, and she was inclined to believe in the red priestess. When Arya managed to pull herself out of the trance, she touched Jon on the shoulder, and he turned his head to meet her gaze. Arya stared into his eyes, so like her own, and smiled at him in a way that was both sad and yet happy.

 

“You always wanted to be somebody,” she whispered.


End file.
